


Clinging on to what we've got

by uumuu



Series: Fëanorians beyond the First Age (AUs) [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Drinking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied FëanorianOT8, M/M, Memories, Mild Sexual Content, Past Violence, Shippy Gen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Amras and Amrod survive to the end of the First Age, and have to deal with Maedhros's grief (but there may be hope still).(Not a continuous story, rather a collection of episodes taking place in the same verse.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I go with the published Silmarillion re:the twins, so Amrod/Pityo is the older and Amras/Telvo is the younger.

“How are you feeling?”

Amras waited patiently as Maedhros slowly became aware of his surroundings, lifted his hand to his face, turned it over and studied its many scars and calluses as if they made up a chart that could have confirmed where he was and who he was. He hadn't moved at all in his sleep, and his copper hair was still neatly fanned out around his face, the way Amrod had arranged it several hours earlier after lovingly combing it.

“A little better,” Maedhros slurred. He tried to sit up, but gave up almost immediately, falling back onto the pillows with a groan. “Have you been here the whole time?”

Amras made a noise of assent. “Thirsty?”

At a nod from Maedhros Amras stood up and filled a chipped wooden bowl with water from the well just outside the ruined palace.

“Here.” 

Maedhros lifted his head to drink, and gulped the water down like one who hasn't drunk for days.

The simple action took up all the energy he had to spare, and once again Amras watched him sink back onto the bed, his breathing echoing off the tall walls. After the recovery of the Silmarils from the camp of the Valar, Maedhros's strength vanished seemingly all of a sudden. The steadfast resolve that carried him through many hopeless battles left him. His last drop of strength had gone into getting away from the sinking of Beleriand. Weeks after the last earthquake had rattled the mountains all around them, he was still bed-ridden, unable to so much as stand up. 

“Where are Pityo and Cáno?”

Amras licked away the drops of the water that had spilled from the corners of Maedhros's mouth and kissed him gently on the lips. “They're out collecting plants...for food and for your medicine.”

“I'm sorry to be such a burden.”

Amras tut-tutted, sitting back down on his stool and cradling Maedhros's hand in his. “Nonsense.You put more of yourself into the war than anybody else. You guided us, and always did your best to keep us from harm. You didn't complain once. I really don't mind switching places and looking after things for a change.”

“Are our people safe?”

“Scattered over the mountains, but always close enough to us.” 

Maedhros nodded and became engrossed in the high high ceiling that Caranthir had had engraved with winding, coiling, intersecting designs you could easily lose yourself in.

“Telvo, my little one...I'm so glad you're alive.”

“I'm very glad to be still with you, at the end of it all.”

“If you had died I don't think –”

“Shhh Nelyo, I'm here.”

Amras bent and kissed his oldest brother again, while his mind went back to Sirion. Amrod and he had decided at the very last moment to carry into battle the shields Caranthir and Celegorm had used, wearing them on their back. The shields had saved their lives, and given them a chance to get to Elwing before she could flee. Those same shields, scratched and battered, were now hung on the wall of what had once been Caranthir's bedroom in the fortress he had built on the slopes of mount Rerir.

Between the shields stood an urn, a heavy thing made out of granite, missing one handle and chipped in several places. They had found it among the wreckage in one of the rooms below, cleaned it and found a new use for it that wasn't decorative: their father and brothers' ashes rested in it now, mingled together. Amras was sure none of them minded.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rain pattering on the roof and into the room through a hole in the ceiling. It met an uneven floor that slanted slightly to one side, and flowed down to a corner of the room and to the room below through a crack in the flagstones.

“We might need to find a better place to stay. If only I weren't this weak...”

“Nelyo,” Amras said slowly, slightly chiding. “We don't have to run. We don't have to fight any longer. We have all the time in the world now.”

“Do you think that is a good thing?”

“It's better than most other outcomes.”

“But hardly good.”

“We tried our best, against overwhelming odds. Remember? The Valar condemned us to do evil even notwithstanding our intentions, and we did. In their eyes at any rate.” 

Amras still wasn't sure whether the Valar had finally sent an army because the news got to them that the Sons of Fëanor had regained one of the Silmarils by killing Lúthien's granddaughter or because they had finally woken up to the fact that Morgoth had taken over and destroyed most of Beleriand, and that he would come for Valinor once he was done with Middle-Earth. Perhaps it had been a bit of both. It didn't really matter. The surviving sons of Fëanor had been sure to mar the Valar's victory by depriving them of the most coveted fruits of it. Regaining the Silmarils from their camp had been relatively easy. Amras and Amrod cleared their path of any obstacle, be it a sleeping Vanya or an alert Ñoldorin guard that might raise an alarm. Maedhros and Maglor seized the Silmarils while remaining completely undetected. 

“Will Pityo and Cáno be back soon?”

“Surely. Pityo knows where all the herbs and edible plants are. We will show you when you are well enough to take a stroll on the mountain side. There's plenty of wildflowers as well. And trees, though most of them are only young sapling as of yet. The mountain too is coming back to life, slowly, just like you.”

“It must be a true paradise for the two of you.”

“We like it a lot, yes,” Amras said, mirroring Maedhros's tentative, almost timid smile. “Do you want a massage?”

Maedhros shook his head.

“It's not a problem –”

“If you touch me I feel like that I fear I might be aroused...I miss it. But I guess it would be bad for my recovery.”

Amras laughed. “Let's hope your recovery doesn't take much longer then...I miss fucking you too.”

Maedhros gave another smile, an even more sheepish one. “Would you...would you get into bed with me?”

“First you refuse my touch, and then ask me to lie with you?” Even as he spoke, Amras kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the old musty-smelling bed with his big brother. More seriously he asked, “do you have nightmares?”

Maedhros rolled onto his side and scooted closer to him. “...Not exactly. Though you could call them nightmares.”

Amras threw one arm over his side and nudged him to go on. 

“I dream of father and of our brothers. I dream they are alive and happy. I talk to them and laugh with them. It...it hurts so much when I wake up.”

“Oh Nelyo.” Amras pressed his hand on Maedhros's back. There was nothing he could say to banish the anguish from Maedhros's voice.

Maedhros cried softly against his chest and was asleep by the time Maglor and Amrod came back.

Maglor took Amras's place next to Maedhros. Maedhros mumbled a protest, but swiftly clung to Maglor once he was within reach. He wouldn't mind that Amras had left him: he would be happy to see that Maglor and Amrod were safely back as soon as he opened his eyes.

Amras helped Amrod carry three baskets full of wild herbs and some early fruits through a hole in the wall into the next room. It had once been an archive, but they had turned into a kitchen, ignoring for the most part the rolls of parchment and stacks of documents rotting in one corner. 

They put the baskets on the desk, and set about sorting out and cleaning the plants, as they had done countless times in their long lives.

They had learnt from the Valar, from Vána and Estë and Yavanna, and from any of the maiar who were able to provide relevant information. The ainur's knowledge turned out to be very limited: they didn't use plants, didn't eat them or brew infusions with them, and the twins had never been interested in being able to make flowers bloom at will or awaken forests ahead of their proper time. They couldn't imagine something more disrespectful of the life of plants and trees, and it spoke volumes of the way the ainur interacted with the world.

Their grandfather's teachings had been far more useful, and far more varied. Finwë's profound knowledge had laid the basis for their own. Finwë knew the use of every plant that grew on the earth – the ones that had sustained the elves in Cuiviénen as well as those that had not existed under the light of the stars, including the dangerous ones the Valar refused to talk about. His enthusiasm had done much to further inspire them, during journeys in the wildest places of Valinor whenever Finwë could take a break form his kingly duties. They had learnt on their own too, experimenting, during their treks with their father and brothers to the edge of the unknown. The Sindar and Green Elves and Avari had provided new insights.

In the end none of that knowledge had been enough to save their brothers.

“Has Nelyo woken at all?” Amrod asked, when the plants were all carefully sorted into little heaps.

“Yes,” Amras said, and hesitated. “...He told me he has dreams in which he is with Father and our brothers.”

A shadow fell on Amrod's hopeful face. “We can cook the best possible food with the stuff we have. We can brew soothing teas for him. We can help him regain his strength and drag him out of bed, outside where the world is still alive. But what can we do to fight off his grief, now that there's nothing left to fight _for_?”

Amras had no answer to that, so he hugged his twin instead and kissed him.

*

In the late spring of the following year, when the days grew longer and longer, Maedhros was hale enough to walk great distances. Amras and he descended from their eyrie fortress to a less steep peak which commanded an unhindered view over the sea-that-should-not-be-there, and over all the land clinging to the Blue Mountains in the south. They stopped where the forest ended, the baskets full of nettles they had gathered along the way sitting side by side on the lush grass. 

The island that had been Himring stood out against the vivid blue sky, a blunt outcrop of rock rising awkwardly from the waves as if someone had dropped it there by mistake and forgotten to move it again. 

Maedhros contemplated his once-home, leaning with his back against a tree.

“Telvo, do you ever feel like it's...unfair that we are alive while Father and our brothers are dead?” he asked, with his eyes fixed on the far-off island with the stark ruins that crowned it.

“I do, at times.”

“Sometimes it becomes unbearable. I keep asking myself what became of them.”

“We did get the Silmarils back, the Oath is fulfilled.”

“What if that isn't enough? What if they are lost to us forever?”

“They are surely not.” 

“What if they need us?”

“Nelyo –” 

“I want to share their fate, whatever it might be.”

Amras inhaled sharply. “Nelyo, please, don't say that.”

Maedhros covered his eyes with his hand and took a deep breath through clenched teeth. “I'm sorry Telvo, I didn't mean –”

“I know. I understand why you feel that way. You shared practically all of Father's life, and watched all of your brothers grow. Of course it would be especially hard for you. But I still am very happy to be alive, and to be with you.”

“I _am_ happy to be with you.”

“I know, Nelyo, I know. I miss them too, and sometimes I too want to be with them again, whatever that may take.” Amras bit his lower lip then added, “I'd probably not wish to live, if Pityo were dead.”

Maedhros extended his hand towards Amras and Amras took it. “I'm sorry I made you think of that.”

“It's a thought that keeps lurking at the back of my mind.”

Maedhros heaved a long sigh, as if he couldn't get rid of a burden that pressed down on his chest. 

“Perhaps we should leave here. When I look at this land, even ravaged as it is, memories keep coming back. Every new nook of the mountains that we explore harbours traces of Moryo's work.” The corner of Maedhros's lips pulled up in a smile that didn't hold one shred of amusement and only made the scar that ran parallel to his jaw-line more evident. “Moryo had a temper and could be harsh, but I can only remember his smile...to me, he is and will always be one of the sweetest, most beautiful persons.”

Amras's smile was a little more genuine. “Moryo was our favourite brother, growing up. He never got angry with us, even when you did, not even when we made fun of him like the horrible little rascals we were. He tickled us to tears, at most, or play-tackled us.”

“Then you became way too big to tackle.”

“And we liked to to return the favour. Though Moryo was not so easy to lift off the ground as Curvo.”

“Curvo looked so small even as an adult that I always felt protective of him...even when I shouldn't have perhaps, but I couldn't help it. I wish I had protected him more, if anything.”

“Remember when Pityo suggested they should swap their father-names? Father took that seriously into consideration for a while.”

“The name would have suited him perfectly...Pityafinwë Atarincë.”

“Yes! And Pityo is skilled enough to go by Curufinwë, if not as inventive.”

Maedhros turned to face Amras, his hand squeezing Amras's almost painfully. Amras could tell what he was going to say by the way Maedhros's eyes burned into his: he had seen it many times before. “You two could be called Curufinwë just for the way you look.”

“A flame-haired Curufinwë, a manifest Spirit of Fire.”

“Taller, but identical in face. Your physique reminds me more of Turco though.”

“I loved it when Turco lifted both me and Pityo when we were very young children. It felt like flying.”

“...He carried me, after Angband, when I overworked myself outside and threatened to collapse as soon as I set foot inside. His smell was...earthen, peculiar...it made me feel safe like nothing else.”

“I carried you plenty of times last year.” Amras gently eased his hand out of his brother's and lifted one of the baskets. 

Though he still looked anguished, Maedhros turned and stayed still as Amras passed the straps attached to one side of the basket over his arms and adjusted them on his shoulders. 

They left the sun-bathed glade and crossed the forest again, treading softly on its carpet of bluebells and forget-me-nots. They trudged on along the gradually steeper incline rising towards the upper reaches of the mountains, dotted with tall plush asphodels and poppies. Where the valley narrowed to a glen, on a stretch of blinding green, they found Maglor and Amrod lying side by side. 

“Look at this!” Amras cried out. “Their baskets are empty and here they are, dozing under the sun after sex.”

Maedhros crouched down on the grass next to Maglor, balancing himself with his hand.

Amrod woke with a start, instinctively reaching for the axe he had used in battle after his sword had been lost during the Nirnaeth. It was a fearsome weapon, almost as long as he was tall, with a large crescent-shaped blade that Curufin had put together from scraps of metal, both elven and orcish. Its cutting edge was fit to hew stone and had severed the queen's head from her neck in one clean sweep in Sirion. It was a little extravagant for a foraging expedition in the woods, but half a millennium of war had taught them you could never be too cautious.

“We can gather more nettles tomorrow,” Amrod said, relaxing, while Maglor barely stirred at his side and gazed up dreamily at Maedhros through half-closed eyelids.

“But tomorrow we planned to start working on the nettles we left in the pool behind the fortress, before it rains and muddies them all up.”

“Then we'll gather more the day after tomorrow.”

“You two can't be left alone if this is how you spend your time!”

“As if you two never end up fucking when you are supposed to be doing something else!”

“Not when we are supposed to do something serious!”

Amrod clicked his tongue and jumped to his feet, refusing his twin's proffered hand. “For fuck's sake Telvo, don't make such a fuss about this.” 

“Ok, so you two won't mind going naked next winter.”

“I can hunt beasts,” Amrod said, hanging his empty basket onto the handle of his axe and balancing the whole thing against his left shoulder. “And I'm sure you won't mind if I go naked next winter.”

With his free hand, Amrod helped Maedhros up and entwined their fingers together as they started the long climb home, leaving Maglor and Amras to trail behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mostly wanted to write something with the twins and give them a more central role than they usually get.
> 
> The next chapter is a what-if sequel to this story. There should be a third chapter which will be a what-if sequel to chapter 2.


	2. Chapter 2

Amras murmured a thanks to no one in particular as he entered the room. Maedhros hadn't heard him rush up the stairs, and stayed where he was, kneeling next to the vessel where the Silmarils rested, his hand gripping the edge of the large stone basin. He was bent over the brim, and gazed at the gems' sparkling raptly, opalescent white and red mirrored in his wide open eyes.

It still hurt to see his oldest brother like that, but Amras was happy not to find him trying to pour all of his blood inside the vessel in one sitting, at least.

He crouched down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder as gently as possible.

“Nelyo,” he called, in a whisper that barely stirred the air around them.

Maedhros started and let out a sharp hiss, a sound between surprise and anger at being torn from his reverie, but his eyes quickly focused on Amras's face.

“Oh,” he gasped. “Telvo. I was –...I was just –”

Amras silenced him with a kiss. He noticed that Maedhros had bandaged his right arm, before losing himself in their father's gems. “It's all right. I came to fetch you because dinner is almost ready and you have yet to finish your spinning.”

“Oh, yes...yes you're right. Sorry.”

Maedhros straightened, but peered again inside the vessel. Amras was compelled to do the same. The fresh blood that had dripped slowly from Maedhros's slashed arm had almost been all absorbed by the Silmarils. 

It was hard to tell if there was any point to the offering. It was very likely a useless ritual, but Maedhros' grief would not be allayed, and so Maglor had come up with the idea. The Silmarils were made of their father – of his craft and his lore and his power. Since they were all made of him too, and their love for their father exceeded all other things, perhaps they could add something of themselves to the gems and empower them. They were surprised when Maglor's reasoning proved to be sound. Maedhros had been ecstatic, and had even tried to get Rómelindë and the others to help. Their blood was refused by the Silmarils, however, and the sons of Fëanor found it half-dried on the gems half-rotting under them. 

Amras hoped the whole process would keep Maedhros's mind occupied long enough for time to ease his yearning, to make it bearable. He was worried too: the ritual itself had become something of an obsession for Maedhros. Once they had found him close to fainting after giving too much blood, so they always kept track of how long he took. Once he had forgotten to bring a knife with him and had ripped his arm open with his teeth, so Maglor always made sure to give him the knife himself.

“Aren't they pretty?” Maedhros whispered, stretching his hand inside the vessel but taking it back at the very last second before contact. 

The Silmarils usually shone red now, dark dark red, but when they fed on new blood the pure white radiance they were famed for warred with the red before melding with it and took on an opalescent hue. Amras had to agree they were at their most beautiful then. 

Before he too was ensnared by that beauty, he stood up and turned away.

He let Maedhros lead the way down the steep staircase that didn't allow more than one person to pass at the same time. Nearly every time Amras used that staircase he wished he could ask Caranthir what he had built such a well-hidden place for, what secrets had filled it. Gold and gems would have made sense, except that Caranthir's treasuries had been larger and more methodically laid out. 

Back in the kitchen next to their bedroom, Maedhros sat at his spinning wheel, made by Amrod with a couple tricks that allowed Maedhros to operate it with his one hand and his stump. He sniffed the air. “Hare stew. It reminds me of when we ran out of provisions in the middle of nowhere and Father tried to put a decent meal for us together from whatever we could find...”

Amrod stopped stirring the large pot, his jaw clenched. 

Maglor looked up from the loom and cast a worried glance at Amras. 

Amras stood behind Maedhros and laid both hands on his shoulders. “Do you mind if I braid your hair while you spin?”

“Does it look that bad?”

“Of course not, it's so beautiful in fact my hands just itch to.” Amras stopped himself at the last second from pointing out that Maedhros's hair hadn't been long enough to braid in a long time. 

Maedhros started the spinning wheel, and its soothing rattle filled the room alongside the bubbling of the pot and and the ever-present hiss of the air currents whisking their way through the cracks in the walls and floors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Subtle craft', 'lore' and 'power' are the three things with which Fëanor is said to have made the Silmarils somewhere in HoME (HoMe 11 if memory serves).


	3. Chapter 3

At first Maedhros only saw an almost-white lump stretched out on the floor right under the vessel where the Silmarils were. Limbs and head and hair took shape in his eyes a moment later, as if they hadn't existed when he stepped into the room. He stood frozen in place, fear-tinged excitement raising goosebumps all over his already bare arms.

It was Curufin.

It was Curufin but his skin was so pale it was almost transparent. Maedhros was surprised he couldn't see right through him, more and more surprised as he stared and stared, unsure if he could trust his brother to stay where he was.

It was Curufin. 

His face was half-hidden, but Maedhros would have recognised the shape of his body, the contours of his arms and legs, anywhere.

Curufin didn't disappear. 

He coughed a little and let out a little whimper and his toes curled up.

Maedhros fell to his knees still at a distance from his brother and slid on the rough floor closer to him, ignoring the bits of broken rock that pressed into his legs and scraped his knees. The thumping of his heart reverberated through his body like a sound that came out of him. 

“Curvo,” he called in the ghost of a voice when he was within reach of Curufin's body.

He stopped with his knees a wisp away from touching him, his darling precious much missed brother. His hand shook violently as he held it out, but when it was time to touch, to make sure Curufin was truly there, he steadied it and laid on Curufin's shoulder.

Curufin started. He lowered the arm shielding his face and his eyes flew open. Mottled-grey irises flashed in-between rapid eyeblinks. He trembled visibly, likely from cold. Maedhros and he moved together – Maedhros made to scoop him up, almost forgetting that he had only one hand, and Curufin practically threw himself in his arms. 

Curufin's hands slid all over Maedhros's sides and back and neck, as desperate to confirm that his brother was real as Maedhros was. His hands stopped in the middle of Maedhros's back and clawed on his shirt.

Maedhros held him tight. He didn't know if he was crying or if he was too numbed by happiness to react in any sort of way, with his brother hanging onto him like a scared kitten. After a time, a faint, far-away pricking alerted him to the fact that Curufin had bit into his shoulder. As absent-mindedly he realised that Curufin was sucking blood from him. The sensation made him shiver again, but didn't surprise him or upset him. He remembered the vessel instead, and the offering of blood he was supposed to make. 

The Silmarils shone pure white again. The blood had disappeared. Their blood had given Curufin a body again. 

When Amrod came to fetch Maedhros he saw the hands hooked into his back and could not hold back a scream. 

He had a hard time assuring Maglor and Amras that nothing bad had happened, and could not hide that something must have happened. 

He slowly circled around Maedhros.

“I don't believe this,” he whispered.

Curufin heard him, and let go of Maedhros's neck. He held his arms out to him with blood sticking to his lips and teeth, in a wordless plea.

“He can't speak?” Amrod knelt and welcomed Curufin in his arms.

Curufin was not able to speak at first, but words would have made little difference when he met Maglor and Amras again and drank blood from them too, after Amrod carried him on his back down the narrow staircase.

The more blood he drank, the more he gained the strength and appearance of a normal elf. His skin became less pale and his lips grew redder. The Silmarils had re-created his body with stunning precision, but it was the unblemished body of his young days, the loving, faithful image their father must have impressed upon the gems.

As soon as Curufin was strong enough, Maedhros took him to bed and fucked him. He claimed Curufin's renewed virginity, mumbling a string of words that clashed into each other and fused together in a bumbling attempt to tell his brother how happy he was and how burningly he had longed to see him again. 

Curufin was no less eager than him. He smiled up at Maedhros, soaking up his river of words and the joy that poured from it, while Maedhros clumsily opened him up. He wrapped his arms and legs around Maedhros as Maedhros entered him, going slowly for a few heartbeats only to shove into him until they were joined. He closed his eyes as Maedhros began thrusting, savouring the friction inside himself and the new song of his body.

After Maedhros came, Curufin explored body with his hands and lips, re-learning the old scars and mapping the new ones, all the while trying not to break eye contact. Maedhros let him do until he was hard again. Curufin didn't protest when Maedhros grabbed his hips and drew him towards his erection. 

The twins were tempted to take Curufin at the same time, but they worried he might still be too weak. They settled for sharing him in a gentler way, one of them kissing and fondling him while the other fucked him. 

Curufin was all but asleep when Maglor finally breached him, and Maglor's movements were slow, attentive and reverent.

In time Curufin became able to take food again, and his voice echoed under the tall roofs when he cried his pleasure or tried to answer all of his brother's question and ask his own.

Maedhros led Curufin through the half-collapsed fortress, and then outside, showing him the new landscape. Curufin stood on a snow-covered peak, wrapped in two layers of furs, his brow creased as he took in the views that made his brothers' tales real: the island of Himring, the smaller islands that had been the peaks of Dorthonion and a stretch of heartless sea all around them. 

Only one thing marred the joy of their reunion: Curufin had no memory of what had happened to him after death. He did remember dying – he remembered pressing on through the caves to get to the Silmaril even though he felt life leaving him and collapsing. He remembered his vision going black. What hurt him the most was not remembering if he had even met their father or not.

Maedhros was disturbed by his brother's loss of memory and insisted that they should renew their offering of blood to the Silmarils to get Fëanor Celegorm and Caranthir back as soon as possible. 

Maglor shook his head, slowly but inexorably, his resolute gaze a match Maedhros's own. “We might have simply gotten lucky. Námo probably didn't expect a fëa to slip from his care so easily, and he won't make the same mistake twice.”

“If Father and Turco and Moryo are in Mandos. There's the Void and the Everlasting Darkness and the Unknown,” Amras gloomily put in. Curufin sat between him and Amrod, concentrated on suckling blood from Amrod's wrist.

Maglor nodded. “And besides, it took us years of blood-offerings before we got Curvo back. We can't even be sure yet that he will stay, and if he does he might need to feed on our blood forever. We should just worry about him for now. Once we are sure of his condition we may start making plans again.”

Maglor expected the idea to sink Maedhros back in his despondency. Instead, Maedhros seethed. The fierceness of the warlord blazed in his eyes anew, and his jaw was set just like when he was ready to launch an attack on orcs or elves or on the very camp of the Valar. He looked ready to march to the Halls of Mandos and break them down, and perhaps also topple Taniquetil along the way. 

His reaction delighted Maglor, who spent the rest of the day teasing and prodding Maedhros until Maedhros was pounding into him still half-dressed on the bare stone floor, his hand curled around his neck to cut his breath or let him free to voice his pleasure, whatever Maedhros fancied best.

Maedhros spent himself inside him once, finished undressing him and moved him to bed. Maglor obediently got on all fours on the free end of the bed, his knees spread wide. Maedhros stood behind him, smacked Maglor's ass once, then stuck three fingers inside his yielding hole and twisted them around in order to coat them with his own seed. He stuffed the come-smeared fingers in Maglor's mouth while he entered him again in a drawn-out, deep thrust. Maglor met him halfway, pushing his ass back to smack against Maedhros's groin and sucking on Maedhros's fingers with abandon at the same time. 

The slow pace allowed them to watch to their leisure the twins, who were fucking Curufin together. 

“How about Pityo and Telvo fuck you like that tomorrow?” Maedhros teased, with a quick but sharp bite to Maglor's shoulder. He was rewarded by Maglor's muffled moans around his fingers and his tongue curling around them, while drool dripped from his mouth and his breath came out in loud huffs through his nose. “Touch yourself.”

Maglor balanced himself on one hand and wrapped the other around his cock, gathering the precome that had oozed from his slit and spreading it over his length. He didn't need to touch himself for long, with Maedhros stabbing into him in a regular cadence and the sight of the twins moving together inside Curufin. His orgasm made him collapse on the bed, spent and drunk with pleasure and even more sensitive to Maedhros's thrusts. Maedhros trailed his fingers down along Maglor's spine and around to his chest, and settled for squeezing Maglor's left nipple while he took his time to finish in him once again. 

Once they were all sated, the five of them lay in each other's arms.

Maglor curled up between Curufin's splayed legs, licking at Curufin's hole from time to time, though the twins' seed was soon gone. Curufin dozed peacefully, still nestled between the twins. Maedhros stretched out behind Amrod, lazily stroking between Amrod's legs and contemplating taking him before sleeping. 

The bliss they shared was almost reminiscent of their young, so carefree love, until a thought flashed Curufin's mind. 

“My son,” he suddenly cried out. “My son...I want my son.”

Maedhros looked up from Amrod's shoulder. He had no idea where Celebrimbor was, had never given much thought to his whereabouts after Celebrimbor had chosen to desert them. But if they couldn't hope to get their father and Turco and Moryo back yet, it was just as well to look for Celebrimbor and make his little brother happy. He flung his arm over Amrod's body and squeezed Curufin's hand in his. “Anything you wish, Curvo. Anything you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone who was waiting for this, I suck at continuining my own stories even when I know exactly what I want to write.


End file.
